


I'm No Scheherazade (But I'll Try Anything For You)

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Evil Sam Winchester, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Dean gets captured by Sam's army.





	

There were three demons in the room with Dean and the place stank of sulphur. The ropes tying him to the chair cut tightly into his wrists and ankles, but he tried to keep his posture as relaxed as possible. No point in giving away just how much he was shitting himself.

After a couple of hours, Ruby came in. She smirked at him, and Dean gritted his teeth at the triumph in her eyes.

“Dean Winchester,” she said, smugly. She looked him up and down, no doubt taking in the state of his clothes, the weight he'd lost in the last few months and the handful of bruises he'd acquired during his capture. “You stink of angels.”

Dean shrugged. “I keep telling Castiel he needs to shower more often, but he's too busy sending demons skanks like you back to Hell.”

Ruby laughed. “Haven't you heard?” she asked. “Hell's on earth now.” Dean didn't have an answer to that, so he just watched as she pulled a table that had been up against the wall closer to Dean. She put a case she'd brought into the room on it, and carefully opened it. “Sam's coming to see you soon,” she said, and Dean had to hold onto himself tightly not to react.

“Great,” he said with a false note of cheer. “Been a while since we had some family time.”

Ruby started to pull knives out of the case and lay them carefully out on the surface of the table. “And whose fault is that?” she asked. “You never write, you never call...Sam's been missing you.”

Dean snorted to himself. “I've been missing Sammy too,” he said bitterly.

Ruby just grinned, and took the last blade out of the case – a wickedly curved hunter's knife. She closed up the case with a click. “You'll be seeing him soon enough,” she promised darkly, and swept out of the room again. Dean took a deep breath, anticipation - _it's not fear_ \- thrumming through him.

It was at least another two hours before the door opened again and Sam came in. Dean pulled himself as upright as he could against the ropes, and flashed him a grin. “Hey, Sammy,” he said. Sam stared at him for a long moment, and Dean tried to stop himself straining against the dim light to see if Sam's eyes were demon-black, or whether they just looked that way because of the shadows by the door. Sam jerked his head at the demons in the room, and they all trooped obediently out.

He didn't say anything to Dean, or even move from his spot by the door once they were gone. He just kept staring until Dean's skin began to crawl. The tension in the air seemed to be choking him, and for a moment he was worried that he'd just have a heart attack or some kind of aneurysm and die before Sam even started in on the torture.

“Nice collection,” said Dean, nodding at the knives. Sam didn't reply, or even move. “Reminds me of Pastor Jim's.” When Sam still didn't react, Dean just let the words spin out of him, trying to tell himself that he didn't sound shit scared at all. “You remember the first time he showed it to us? That summer we stayed there when you were, what? Thirteen? Man, your eyes nearly bugged out of your skull. You always did have a thing for knives.” Sam leaned back against the wall, as if settling in to hear the whole story.

Dean swallowed, and found himself telling the story just as he would if they were getting drunk in a motel room together again, rehashing old family memories. “You spent days begging him to let you try out his throwing ones, remember? You just went on and on and on about it until I was ready to lock you in vestry, and in the end you even wore down _his_ patience. He told you that if you could hit the centre of the target in his back yard two out of three times, consistently, with the old knife Dad had left for you, he'd let you try with his.”

Sam suddenly moved, and Dean couldn't stop himself from flinching back. Sam prowled further into the room and carefully circled around Dean, but he still didn't say anything, and after a moment Dean took up the thread of the story again.

“You must have practised for at least six hours a day for weeks. I was sure you'd get bored after a couple of days – you always hated the training Dad made us do, after all - but you kept right at it. You were so dedicated...” his voice trailed off as he remembered the squinting look of deep concentration that Sammy had had as he threw the knife at the target over and over. “I was so proud,” he said in an undertone. Sam, who was somewhere behind him, stopped moving, and Dean felt a creeping sensation, as if spiders were climbing up his back.

He cleared his throat. “When you finally managed it, I think Pastor Jim was just relieved that we might be able to get you to do something else. He let you use his knives for an entire afternoon and you got a bullseye for pretty much every throw, remember? Then he made you sharpen them that evening.”

Sam started moving again, soft steps somewhere behind Dean's left shoulder, and Dean tensed up.

“I remember,” said Sam softly, the first words he'd said since he'd come into the room. He walked up to the table in front of Dean, and ran his finger down the blade of the longest knife on it – one that was almost a machete. Dean gulped nervously.

“And then, for Christmas, he gave you your own set,” he managed to say, fear drying his mouth. Sam nodded, still looking down at the knives on the table. “We spent all of the next day in the back yard,” finished Dean, “And I was so pissed, because you were a better shot than I was.” Traditionally when Dean told this story, Sam would grin and point out that he still was, and Dean would snort and tell him he was deluded, then they'd chink their beers in memory of Pastor Jim.

“And I still am,” said Sam softly, and Dean had to look away from the broad span of his brother's shoulders and blink rapidly to stop himself having a girly moment. For a minute it was hard to keep in mind that this wasn't really his brother anymore, that somewhere along the line he'd stopped being Sammy, and started being the demons' Prince, tearing open seals and killing hunters, civilians and even angels whilst he did it. _He's not your brother anymore,_ Dean reminded himself viciously. _He killed Bobby. And he's probably about to kill you, after he's tortured you._

“And now you're going to use those knives on me,” he said out loud. Sam's finger lingered on the blade for a long moment, then he abruptly turned back towards the door.

“Not today,” he said, and left the room without another word. Dean blinked after him in disbelief, relief flooding through him.

“Shit,” he swore quietly, taking several deep breaths.

About ten minutes later, Ruby came back in, and packed up the knives again, grumpily. She glared at him just before she left, and said, “It's only a temporary reprieve, you know. He'll be back tomorrow.”

Dean watched her leave, and huffed out a sigh, wondering what memory he could invoke tomorrow that would have the same effect.

 


End file.
